For Pesky Godson

It’s Sunday night and I’m cooking salmon outside. My normal dinner nights are Tuesday and Thursday, but Diane doesn’t grill. Even a thick fillet only takes ten minutes, and because I’ve got something to say to Diane in private, before Matt appears growling for dinner, I hurriedly ask, “Diane, what are you doing tomorrow?”:

Diane: “What do you mean, what am I doing tomorrow?”

Me: “What do you mean by what do I mean? What’s your schedule?”

Diane: “You know my schedule. Why are you asking?”

Me: “What do you mean, why am I asking? Can I ask a more innocent question? Tell me what you’re doing!”

Diane: “Tell me what’s really up.”

Me: “I can’t ask what you’re doing on a particular day without you thinking I have an agenda?”

Diane: “No you can’t. You know what I do on Mondays.”

“What’s for dinner?” Matt bounds down early.

“Salmon and it’s almost ready, ” I answer, happy for the distraction. I figure Diane will forget my question by the time we finish eating. It still gnaws at me that I’m so goddamn transparent to her. Dinner ends and Matthew slips out the door to Debbie’s. I get up to leave:

Diane: “Why did you ask me what I’m doing?”

Me: “Stop it. I just wanted to know what your schedule was.”

Diane. “Why? I know there is something up.”

Me. “Up? Nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Do you get it now?

Diane: “Tell me the truth.”

Me: “The truth is I want to strangle you.”

Diane: “After you tell me what’s wrong.”

Me: “Wrong, now something is wrong?”

Diane: “What is it.”

Me. “I found a lump on my side early last week and I’m having it checked out tomorrow.”

“How big is it and why didn’t you tell me?”

“You have enough on your mind; it feels like a small Easter Egg. I emailed the doctor’s office and they said come right in. I assume it’s nothing, but with everything going on, I figure it’s best to have someone else tell me it’s nothing. Then I can forget about it.”

Monday I’m off doing estimates, but I make it to Dr. Long’s office at 4:30. The nurse tells me to remove my shirt, which I do, and then I sit and wait. Instead of focusing on the flab pouring over my belt, I pick up a Time magazine, but then Dr. Long walks in. He smiles as though we’re old friends, and proceeds to tell me about his son who attends St. Lawrence University, but has this semester abroad at James Cook University in Northern Queensland, and how he and his wife will visit him in Australia and then travel to New Zealand, and how much it costs to call him and how his son will say call him on Friday, but when he does his son says, “But, Dad, it’s Saturday,” and on and on.

Finally, he stops and says, “So, what about you?”

“I have this lump.”

“Does it hurt?

“No.”

“How long has it been there?”

“You know, I don’t know. I don’t feel myself up as often as I used to.”

He walks over, puts his fingers together and moves my lump around.

“It’s a benign tumor called a lipoma. If it grows it might be a liposarcoma, a malignant cancer, but I’ve only seen two of those in twenty-five years. Ninety-nine to one it’s benign.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear. But because I’m going to get asked this question, if it is cancerous and I’m just waiting around to see if it is, do I lessen my chances of survival?”

“No, because if it is you don’t have any anyway.”

Here’s a photo of your typical successful businessman having a his usual two martini lunch. Dan’s in Norfolk, Virginia today and Atlanta tonight. Why is he traveling south? He heard the martinis are tastier.

After I struggled to take an Adam-engineered non-flash photo of Emma, she grabbed my camera and snapped off these terrific shots.

(click)

(click)

(click)
I’m looking up at P Rodd, and he was in the frame, but he complains if I post him looking like a dumbed-down version of Jethro from The Beverly Hillbillies.

(click)

Emma modeling the dress she’ll wear for her class trip to Washington, DC in May.

Her latest podcast sent to me by La Rad.

Tonight we went to Monument Hall in Concord with Mark and Ginger to sing along with Nick Page .

Do I really need to say anymore?

Matt was accepted by URI today. That makes, Temple, George Mason, Roger Williams, Jack Benny, URI and Radford, and wait listed at UVM and Goucher.

(click)
Joyce Perseroff and Donald Hall

After sushi, Diane and I stopped by The Concord Poetry Center to hear : “Jane Kenyon : Join us to commemorate the life and work of this beloved New England poet with her husband, the poet Donald Hall, and Joyce Peseroff, poet and editor of Simply Lasting: Writers on Jane Kenyon.”

We arrived forty-five minutes early and I grabbed two front row seats in the old auditorium. I know, who gets anywhere that early for anything, much less a poetry reading? But, I didn’t know the size of the venue – I assumed more of a bookstore-like setting, and I hate distant seats.

Diane ‘s followed Donald Hall since her Wellesley days, and I know of him only because of his books written about his dying wife. He married Jane when she was twenty-four and he forty-three, and she died of leukemia at forty-eight in 1995.

Anyway, they read many of our favorite Kenyon poems; Joyce’s words so clear you could see them, but Donald (for me) reading too quickly. However, I was most fond of the banter between the two friends, and Donald’s loving anecdotes about his talented wife – their writing together, sharing of finished (never in process) poems, and their reactions when simultaneous acceptance for one, rejection for the other, letters arrived.

“Twilight while Haying which I’ve posted before:

Yes, long shadows go out
from the bales; and yes, the soul
must part from the body:
what else could it do?

The men sprawl near the baler,
too tired to leave the field.
They talk and smoke,
and the tips of their cigarettes
blaze like small roses
in the night air. (It arrived
and settled among them
before they were aware.)

The moon comes
to count the bales,
and the dispossessed–
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will
–sings from the dusty stubble.

These things happen. . .the soul’s bliss
and suffering are bound together
like the grasses. . .

The last, sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird;
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew.

Otherwise

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

Having it Out with Melancholy

If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may be certain that the illness has no cure.

A. P. CHEKHOV The Cherry Orchard

1 FROM THE NURSERY

When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.

And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad — even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.

You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
“We’re here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated.”

I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours — the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.

2 BOTTLES

Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.

3 SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND

You wouldn’t be so depressed
if you really believed in God.

4 OFTEN

Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep’s
frail wicker coracle.

5 ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT

Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.

I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors — those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few

moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.

Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
“I’ll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!” After that, I wept for days.

6 IN AND OUT

The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life — in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .

7 PARDON

A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.

We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.

8 CREDO

Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.

Coarse, mean, you’ll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can’t
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can’t sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can’t read, or call
for an appointment for help.

There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.

9 WOOD THRUSH

High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome

by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

From Boston Legal with James Spader (Windows Media Player – 16 MB).

…”I’ve got a rope.”

Bob and I peered down the face with Jack. We couldn’t see very far, since the walls of the cleft blocked the view of the lower cliffs. Jack continued, “Below that chimney, from what I’ve heard we’ll have to rappel.” That perked up my ears. I’d never rappelled before. Jack uncoiled his rope and showed us how you wrapped it around your leg, your waist and your shoulder. And then he pulled out some nylon webbing from his backpack, which he helped Bob and me tie around our waists.

One of the other hikers came over and asked us what we were planning. Jack told him. He introduced himself as Bill, and said that he’d climbed a little bit before, and would like to join us. He had even rappelled a couple of times before and had a waist sling of his own. So we welcomed him to the team.

After some fiddling with our knots, our boots and our packs, Jack led the way down the tumbled boulders of the cleft. Soon we were within a chimney four or five feet wide, and we descended with hands and feet pressing against the sides. The walls were blocky and full of solid footholds and handholds, so we didn’t feel the need to rope up yet. As we down-climbed together, we could see the slope steepening.

Jack told us that it was time to rappel. He tied a piece of webbing around a large projecting rock, and fed the rope through the loop. Bill, the other experienced rappeler, descended first. The route was not vertical, but it would have been hard to climb. (The guide books call this Kiener’s Route, and it’s rated 5.4, which would have been at the top end of my ability to climb at that time.) Bill shouted up that he was at the end of the rappel, and Bob descended. Shortly I followed. The rope slid smoothly and slowly around my body, just as it was supposed to, and soon I was on a ledge looking up at Jack. He rappelled quickly down, and with two of us tugging on one end, the rope came down from above. Now we were committed. There was no going back.

The rest of our descent on the rocks was relatively uneventful. Now and then we could see the vast vertical space of the Diamond off to the left, and further down we could see a wide snow-covered ledge crossing the slope below us. “That’s Broadway”, said Jack. Clambering downward, we eventually reached Broadway. It extended off horizontally to the Diamond on the left and to a snowy couloir on the right. After easy rock hopping along the broad ledge, we gained the couloir, and looking up to the right and down to the left, we saw it was a long snow gully that ran up to the right about 500’ up near Long’s Notch, and down to the left about 1000’ to the canyon floor just at the top end of Chasm Lake. For the first time we could see the the end of our route. Jack told us that we should rope up here, and he helped us each tie into the rope, Bill at one end, himself at the other, and Bob and I about 40’ apart in the middle. Jack stepped out onto the snow slope, and showed us how to “plunge step” in the snow.

Unknown to us, this was the infamous Lamb’s Slide, and many a climber has been injured or killed in an uncontrolled descent. The snow comes to a sudden end on the rocks at the bottom, and you can gain quite a bit of speed before colliding with the boulders at the end of the snow. The conditions of the snow itself were excellent for climbing. The snow was solid, but not icy, and an experienced snow climber would have had no problem. But we were snow lambs, innocents ready to be slaughtered at the end of the slide.

At first we progressed carefully and steadily. Bill or Jack would descend first, while the rest of us stood still, and then, one at a time, the other three would descend. But no one had an ice axe, and a slip by any one of us could pull the next person on the rope off his stance, which is exactly what happened. I can’t recall who slipped first, but a chain reaction quickly followed. Soon all four of us were sliding, butts on the snow, hands and feet digging for purchase. When one of us managed to stop he was quickly pulled off his feet. Pretty soon Bob and I were tumbling head over heels. Bob somehow had gotten the rope wrapped around him. Jack and Bill may have had a more controlled descent, but I couldn’t tell. We accelerated towards the rocks with no way to slow down. The slope suddenly flattened a bit, and I was able to get onto my stomach and press my hands into the snow ahead. Bob was completely out of control, and flew into the boulder field head first. As the snow ended, my extended hands abruptly stopped, and I somersaulted over onto my back.

We lay there on the rocks for a minute, and then Jack groaned, “I think I’ve broken my hip”. Bill also groaned, “My arm’s broken.” I checked my extremities, and found only bruises and cuts on my hands. But there was no sound from Bob. He was lying motionless on his back. We crawled over to him. His jaw was bloody, and he was blinking his eyes like he was trying to wake up. He reached his hand to his jaw, and opened his mouth. His teeth were badly broken. He muttered something incoherent about his dentures. We tried to get him comfortable, and discussed what to do. Bill volunteered to run down for help. We gave him Bob’s home phone number to call his wife. Then we watched him jog down the Chasm Lake trail towards help.

A couple of hours later, two search-and-rescue rangers came up the trail. While one assessed Bob’s damages, the other fired up a stove and made some hot soup for him. Jack had long since found that his hip was only bruised, and he could walk. By that time, Bob had regained his senses and mobility. One of the rangers gave him a walking stick, and he was able to walk out with us to the trail head. We were met at the parking lot by Bob’s wife and Bill. She hugged her old husband (he really did look old now), and looked at the rest of us disdainfully. Bob got into his car with her and waved goodbye.

Bill told us that his arm was only sprained, so of the four of us, by some miracle, only Bob had really been injured. Jack, Bill and I shook hands, and departed. I never saw them again.

• rakkity